To Lucasta, about That War

John Ciardi

A long winter from home the gulls blew
 on their brinks, the tankers slid
 over the hump where the wolf packs hid
 like voodoo talking, the surf threw
 bundles with eyes ashore. I did
 what booze brought me, and it wasn't you.

I was mostly bored. I watched and told time
 as enforced, a swag-man
 under the clock. The bloat-bags ran
 wet from nowhere, selling three-for-a-dime
 and nobody buying. Armies can
 type faster than men die, I'm


told, and can prove. Didn't I find
 time there and more to count
 all, triplicate, and still walk guard-mount
 on the gull- and drum-wind
 over the hump? I did, and won't
 deny several (or more) pig blind

alleys with doors, faces, dickers,
 which during, the ships slid
 over the hump where the packs hid.
 And talking voodoo and snickers
 over the edge of their welts, I did
 what I could with (they called them) knickers;

and it was no goddamn good,
 and not bad either. It
 was war (they called it) and it lit
 a sort of skyline somehow in the blood,
  and I typed the dead out a bit
  faster than they came, or anyone should,

and the gulls blew high on their brinks
  and the ships slid and the surf threw,
  and the Army initialed, and you
  were variously vicariously and straight and with kinks
  raped, fondled, and apologized to-
  which is called (as noted) war. And it stinks.